The Wistful Letter
The contract lay on the workbench, the ink still wet and glistening like a fresh wound. You signed it. Your hand shook, not from cold, but from the sheer, exhausting weight of the promise you had just made to the Board. The Grand Chime was due by Friday. You were Elias, forty-two, a master clockmaker in a decaying textile mill, and you wanted to finish the mechanism to secure your contract. The...
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